Still dreek dark heavy misty morning.
Half-hearted cock-crow, with my radio on;
pressing for a coffee… strip down terror
suspects by May. No, says June. Bitter spat.
Handbags.
We’re here because we’re here because we’re here
Shifting goalposts. Sand riddle, like the Sphinx.
Typical government trickery, hickory dickory.
Mouse roars, clock flees in floods, sea of time
I could’ve slept all night
I
Cudave schleppt
All night…&
Stillav’schlept summore
I
Kudda did
Sumthings
Eye’ve
Nefferdun
Bevor….
I’ll never know wot made it so
Xcitin’
Wen allat wonce my art
Took flite
I
Ownly no that shee
Began two dance wivced
Me
I
Cuddadanssed
Darnstdarnsed
Allnite.
Sleep vermillion deep on tilted bed,
blood seeped lush ooze
downslope heading headwards
deflating maculate instep and arch,
ankle, heel, and calf.
Flooded dreams of Fen, Ely, Hereward the Wake.
Airborne screech, bare bummed cackling grimalkin:
surfeit of posset. Traitors lurk amongst
liturgy and reeded, boggy hollow.
The Wash will out the Crown.
gift your worst enemies:
deep sea anemones
Napalm funburst sunset, oilslick bitter tears
Give way to pork smells, rumbaba, cockatoos
Squawk, rustles of last gasp, reeling tigers,
plangent oozing, floating, clades and phylums
make touching, silken, floating islands.
Handless in daylight,
dumbed up,
heavy eyed,
slumped posturelessly:
Thinking crafting…
Dreams all smoke and needles.
Warm hot drink in the dark of dawn.
Pink blue grey shadow:
dark orange glow of cold red brick.
Opposite
Car crusted:
Sea salt white sand on metal green frozen kelp.
Neat work by near clear
night.
Tongue twisted morning garglers
dash the mirror. Cough &
splutter.
Showers follow borne
by
Wind from a cold place
The mob has gone.
Bob is making
rolls with sausages in them.
A thirty four is shut: northward bound.
Wish I was a Phoenix.
Sometimes
Tomorrow is Oxford without parking or me.
Remember the Alibi: amputated neck.
Sick note. Be flat. Play doggo. Stay warm.
Cocoon safe baby bunting.
Snug as a mug in a hug.
All is plight.
Begloved hands ring with pain.
Sing song blue.
Little Green Lies.
Miss call: med at four-thirty,
crying along to baby blue,
dead time.
Weeping real tears,
old voices of old friends in the messenger,
dead romans,
Nile vipers, alabaster elephant pups;
dimwit twisted garrets,
dimlit deep sea divers,
cement boots, aquarium skidlids.
Down the lane
at the hanged man’s house
wild beasts drive,
whistle in the woods,
absinthe oglers
naked ladies
paddle in Pull-in’s Pond.
Tears stream down cheeks,
bandanas lattice plaits of stars,
milky ways of cast off
unravelling cloth.
Acknowledge the bible
scribblers on the credits,
disappointed briefs
and wiseacres arrange things
good and proper…warm blooded nappies charm the sinews,
joints glow:
perhaps a cosy nap
before crisp morning
cracks the whip.
As if
people
have
nothing
better
to do
than this:
Grimbeau 